I have lots to write about, or at least I think I do, but for some reason I’m having trouble putting fingertip to keyboard. There are lots of things swimming in my head and yet…

Before I get to any of those things I have to write this post.

I’m warning you, it’s going to be long, personal, and all about MEEEEE. I’m going to go back to the beginning and you might be bored to tears but I feel like I should provide some context. I hope I don’t regret this. Here’s me crossing my fingers.

OK.

What happened was a few years ago I decided to break up with Jesus. A clean break. Nothing fancy, nothing overdramatic. I just needed some time and space. As far as boyfriends go, Jesus is a time-consuming one. First of all, he’s never there. Don’t give me that bullshit about how Jesus is Always with Us because when was the last time you had a face to face talk with your Lord and Saviour? Believe me, I have no problems grasping the metaphysical mumbo jumbo but I still think that you can’t treat a relationship with God the same way you treat a relationship with another human being.

That’s a discussion for another time, though. I’m getting off track. I left the religion and, therefore, the church, much to my devout parents’ dismay. I tried to tell them, look, I’m just trying to figure things out. I never said I wouldn’t get back together with Jesus. But my mom said, well, how can you figure things out if you DON’T GO TO CHURCH? (Why is it that people always make that argument whenever someone leaves the church? Anyone who has left the church knows how stupid a statement that is, but the people making the statement never do.)

Then my dad got sick and almost died. He was rescued by staggering achievements in medical science and a bit of luck (or providence, depending on whom you ask). And after that all happened, I came to this realization that circumstance had robbed me of a certain luxury that so many of my peers have: the luxury of taking your parents/family for granted. I guess this normally doesn’t happen until later in life, usually after one or more parents is actually dead.

I always try to make a point of learning from other people’s mistakes. I also try to learn from the near misses.

I came out of that period of time in one’s youth when one wants to distance oneself from one’s family/parents as much as possible. I realized that I am not as independent as I thought I was and that I need my family to survive in a multitude of ways, blah-blah-community-cakes.

I should be clear: during my sojourn from the religion, I never stopped thinking about spirituality and related things. I never stopped trying to figure it out. Believe it or not, even my mom realized this, in time. She said, Jenny, I can tell you’ve found some peace. I was shocked when she said that, and a little more shocked when I realized she was right.

I decided to return to my old church community for two main reasons. First, that community had supported my family during the Time of Almost Death and I figured I owed it another chance. Second, religion and faith is a huge thing in my biological family on both sides. Faith is what brought my great-grandmothers over the ocean decades ago, faith is what sustains my mother, who lives a challenging, difficult life with grace and courage.

For better or for worse, this religion/faith/church is my culture. It’s where I come from, and maybe it’s not where I’m supposed to be going. I cannot for the life of me recall when or where I read this, but many Buddhists will tell those interested in Buddhist practice not to abandon their cultural religious traditions entirely, but rather to recognize the way Buddhism augments all religions, expands upon them. Or something. As I said, I don’t remember.

It’s not that I’m a Buddhist; it’s just that I want to honour the strengths of my forebears and try to find a place in the faith that formed the framework of their lives.

So that’s it. No transformation/conversion story. Just a decision to engage myself in the church community in addition to my private study. I went back to the church (and indeed the faith) with some rules. The first rule: no guilt. I wasn’t going to let the church or the people in it guilt me into anything. Anything I was going to do had to come naturally — praying, giving, volunteering, bible reading, whatever. So much of my childhood was spent feeling guilty — not for doing bad things, because, while I was quite a little jerk most of the time, I didn’t do any of the big ticket sins like have sex or drink or smoke. The guilt I felt most of the time had to do with religious practice, i.e. reading the bible, praying, having the “quiet time,” i.e. not doing those things regularly. I also felt guilty for not “feeling it” in church or in worship services or whatever. That I wasn’t “growing spiritually” the way other kids were. I was too busy feeling guilty for not being a good enough Christian that I didn’t have time feel guilty for being an ASSHOLE. Which I was. Which is not to say I’m not one now, but I’m trying to keep it down to a dull roar these days.

Anyway, now I’m not holding myself to that bullshit. I go to church, because I like to see my friends and hold babies. If I daydream during the sermon, I don’t beat myself up about it. I don’t take notes, and I don’t feel guilty about that, either. That’s the deal I struck with myself, and maybe even God. OK, I’ll come back to church, but there’s no pressure.

Maybe you’re reading this and you think it’s all pomo crap. If so: too bad, bitches. I don’t care, because I spent too long caring about that sort of thing and poisoning myself in the process.

Love,
Jenny

P.S. GOD IS A SHE
P.P.S. (Not really, I just said that to freak you out)
P.P.P.S. (But that doesn’t mean you can keep referring to God with male pronouns)
P.P.P.P.S. (At least, not on my blog watch)